


Negotiations

by alexxphoenix42



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Dom Sherlock, Gay Sex, M/M, PWP, Rope Bondage, Sub John, Top!lock, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-06
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2018-01-11 08:27:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexxphoenix42/pseuds/alexxphoenix42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John take their relationship to the next level.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Negotiations

A single drop of sweat beaded at the hair line of Dr. John Watson. It ran over his slightly furrowed brow, around the eye, and meandered down one cheek before dripping off his chin. Sherlock watched its path in fascination until another drop joined it, this one making its way across John’s jaw until it ran down his neck and clung to the hollow at his throat.  John, stripped to the waist, hung suspended in the sitting room of 221B by a series of ropes. His arms were tied securely behind his back, but not tightly enough to injure his weak shoulder, while several thick ropes were looped around his torso, thighs and ankles to leave him dangling a few feet above the carpet.  Any movement caused him to rock slightly from the hook holding the ropes securely to the ceiling.

“Sherlock.” John gasped out. It was warm in the flat, and John blinked trying to clear the sweat clouding his vision.

 “Hmmmm?” Sherlock replied absently watching another bead of sweat rolling its way down John’s throat.  Sherlock stepped forward to stop its progress with one long elegant finger.  When he brought it to his mouth and sucked the wetness down, John closed his eyes with a groan.

It was a hell of a position to find yourself in after lying down for an afternoon nap. One minute John had been asleep on the couch, dreaming something inconsequential about pink ducks swimming on a pond at the park. The next minute, he’d been wrestling with his tall, mad flatmate who had somehow managed to strip him to the waist, swathe him in ropes, and hoist him into the air before he could say “Bob’s your uncle," or even properly cry for help. Not that crying for help would have done much good. He remembered that Mrs. Hudson was spending the weekend away visiting her sister, and no assistance would be arriving from that quarter.

John noted with an equal chagrin, and no small pride that he had managed to give Sherlock quite a shiner over his right eye before he had realized who was enveloping him, and gone slack with surprise.  It was a test, or an experiment, or some crazy scheme of Sherlock’s. John had huffed in resignation, and relaxed into the hold of the ropes when Sherlock settled the blindfold over his eyes.

“John,” Sherlock had whispered against his ear. “You need to be prepared for anything in our line of work. You must learn to resist interrogation in all its many forms.”  He paused. Almost in afterthought, Sherlock added “Your safe word is _chrysanthemum._ ”  

“What the hell . . .” John got out. Then the sweet sting of a riding crop had lashed across his lower back, and all rational thought had been scattered to the four winds.

An hour had flown by.  Sherlock alternated pelting rapid-fire questions at John on everything from details of past cases, to how Sherlock took his coffee, with quick strikes of the riding crop wherever John’s flesh was not bound by the sturdy ropes. John quickly realized the game was to give out false information when pressed, and to remain stoically silent when not.  John couldn’t help the low cries that escaped his lips with each blow. He realized Sherlock was taking it easy on him, not breaking the skin, or hitting the same area twice, but . . . still. Hanging suspended, sightless, not knowing when the next strike would fall - it was breaking him down. Almost to the moment that John felt complete surrender cresting over him like a wave, Sherlock stopped, removed the blindfold, and stepped back. 

John had blinked at the sudden return of light to his eyes. He panted, getting his breath back, while Sherlock simply stood, watching John’s breast heave, and the slow trickle of sweat moving over his skin.  The silence was deafening. John found himself craving the questions Sherlock had bombarded him with to return - anything to fill this spinning void that had opened inside him.

Sherlock stepped close, a whisper of clothes against John’s bare skin, and caught his eye. The interrogation is over, you, uh,” he cleared his throat, “you passed with flying colors, Captain Watson.”

 It surprised John to see that something new had crept into Sherlock’s gaze, something fragile and strange in his shifting pale eyes. Sherlock lifted his hand to hover over the crotch of John’s soft pyjama bottoms now awkwardly tented in the front. 

“John, you have the word.” he whispered.

John said nothing, keeping  his eyes riveted on Sherlock’s face.  Sherlock let his hand fall, and stroked gently over John’s straining erection. A jolt blasted up John’s spine with the single touch, slamming his eyes instantly shut. 

“Christ.” he ground out, twitching at the intensity. 

Sherlock moved so close his breath ghosted along John’s shoulder. His clever fingers found their way under the waist band of John’s pants.

“John.” Sherlock breathed into his ear as he pushed the fabric down, and John’s aching cock burst free.  John shuddered, but remained silent as Sherlock wrapped his hand over his penis, and pulled the silky stretch of foreskin up and down his hard length. When Sherlock sucked softly where his neck joined his shoulder, John came with a cry, pumping white stripes over Sherlock’s hand. 

Water ran down both their cheeks when Sherlock broke the embrace and hurried to release John to the ground. As the ropes unwound, John collapsed to the carpet in a heap. Sherlock crouched before him, one hand lifted in warning as if he were now afraid to touch him after all that had just unfolded. 

“John, forgive me.” Sherlock spat out, his voice half strangled in his throat. “That was reprehensible. I lost all objectivity, and took advantage of you. I’m a monster . . .”

“No.” John said gathering the strength to lift his head. “That was . . . weird, but it was . . . it was okay. I had a safeword. I chose not to use it.” John pushed himself to sitting, and reached a hand to Sherlock, wrapping his fingers over his bicep. Sherlock looked up, finally raising his eyes to meet John's. His face lay stripped bare, as open as a small child's in his want.

“It’s fine.” John said softly as Sherlock fell into his arms. “It’s all fine.”


End file.
